


Deja Vu

by grapehyasynth



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, F/M, Framework, Reunions, fitz remembers, lots o emotions, post 4x15
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-27 16:26:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10031843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grapehyasynth/pseuds/grapehyasynth
Summary: Leopold Fitz is the f*cking shit and he knows it.That is, until he meets a woman at a party and starts having flashes to a life, a person, a relationship he's never known -- but which feels more real than the one he has now.*Framework fic. Fitz remembers Jemma.*First chapter T, second M





	1. Chapter 1

Leopold Fitz is the fucking shit and he knows it.

Tonight’s banquet isn’t officially being held in his honor, but they might as well have hung a banner emblazoned with the words “Hydra’s science division would be nothing without you, Mr. Fitz, so thank you for saving us from execution at the hands of our terrifying bosses”. Then again, he could understand why brevity would demand they limit it to “Another Successful Year!”

He turns thirty next week and he is on top of the world. His father is the richest man in the world, making him the second richest; he has a fleet of limousines and a never-ending line of women eager to spend an afternoon, an evening, a night-but-no-breakfast with him; he has more research money than he could spend in three lifetimes.

His tuxedo and this fancy dinner are just the cream on top.

He eases through the hall, shaking hands, tossing witty barbs, further endearing himself with his insecure colleagues who all crave his affirmation. Somewhere along the way a glass of champagne ends up in his hand; he rolls the stem between his thumb and forefinger as he looks for an interesting target. His father has taught him well in the art of acting like people less intelligent than he are _fascinating_ , but sometimes he is still that bored little boy, frustrated out of his mind by the mundanities of ordinary people. If he can find someone entertaining enough to hold his attention for the evening, it will be an unmitigated success.

As he passes the open French doors, he thinks he has found it. A woman stands out on the balcony in a thin-strapped navy blue dress sewn with beads that catch the light from the hall. She is dazzling, even from behind, her hair swept into a bun that cascades into curls. He has seen her around the department but always walking away, leaving a room, ending a conversation; she barely glances at him, shows none of the interest most people (of any gender, orientation, or relationship status) usually reveal around him.

“Aren’t you cold?” he calls from the doorway.

She turns to him, loose strands of hair blowing across her face in the breeze and her eyes red-rimmed as if she’s come out here to have a cry, and it hits Fitz in the gut.

_She is standing before him in a sweater and jeans, paler, hair wilder, defeated and desperate. She is buffeted by the wind as she stands at the edge of the ramp, but she seems to be telling him something. He needs to get to her, he knows that, but he doesn’t know how, and he is screaming, he is screaming her name—_

Fitz has to catch himself on the doorframe as the force of the image hits him. _What the_ hell _was that?_

The woman smiles quickly, wipes at her eyes delicately so as not to smear her makeup, and crosses the balcony to him. In the light he can see a bloom of freckles on her chest just before it disappears into her dress, and she is wearing a necklace that seems eerily familiar to him. Maybe she is one of his past romantic entanglements?

“Hello,” she says softly. “I don’t think we’ve met. I work in biochemistry. I’m—”

“Jemma,” Fitz breathes.

She starts back from her, her extended hand flying to curl around her neck. “How did you know that?”

“I – I don’t know,” he admits.

The way she’s looking at him – even that’s familiar. Her lips are just slightly parted, her eyes wide and her brows scrunching up towards the middle of her forehead. He’s seen this look before. Except then she wore a black button-up sweater over a blouse and her hair was shorter and she was holding a tablet and there was – there was some sort of glass box –

Whatever this is, déjà vu or premonition or evidence of reincarnation, Fitz doesn’t like it. He feels vulnerable, exposed, confused, off his game, weaknesses he _never_ feels.  

But at the same time…

At the same time, Fitz has never felt this _intrigued. Curious. Fascinated._ Thrown for a loop, certainly, but – thrown into a new loop, maybe, something dangerous and humbling and complicated but infinitely more interesting.

Less than a minute has passed since he first saw her on the balcony, and he has become a person he hardly recognizes.

People are moving to their seats for the first course. Jemma glances at him, something akin to fear in her expression, and makes to walk away as well, but he catches her hand.

“Who are you?” he whispers.

She looks down at their joined fingers and swallows. “Someone you used to know.”

They end up seated beside each other, because of course they do. Fitz can barely eat, he’s so driven to distraction. Usually, in a situation like this, with a woman this beautiful, he’d pick up her napkin when she drops it, he’d tease her about how she holds her fork, he’d amuse her with endless useless facts about quail eggs, he’d have her hand high on his thigh by the end of the dinner –

But with Jemma, he’s too busy thinking that she’d much prefer a beer to the wine she’s barely touched. He can even picture her in some university club, some underground bar he somehow knows she – _they? –_ used to frequent. He sees the way she pushes her vegetables around and he knows she’s sorting them, planning the bites she’ll take throughout the meal. Some hair falls loose from her updo but she doesn’t tuck it back behind her ears; he knows, somehow, that she only does that when she’s in the middle of a very important breakthrough.

He has no right to know these things, but he does, and he needs more. His clothes suddenly feel ill-fitting, the champagne tastes sour, there are too many people in this room – why did he think he liked this kind of thing?

When Jemma leaves, before everyone else, he topples his chair in his haste to follow her. He has run after her before, he’s certain, though usually she was in distress and he went to comfort her, because when she cries she does it where no one can see. Because she is the strongest person he knows and when she needs to be weak, she hides it. Hides it from everyone but him. Cries into his chest – he can feel it, can imagine – remember? – what it is like to hold her.

Outside, she is waiting for a cab. She glances over her shoulder at him nervously.

“Please,” he finds himself saying. “I have to know – I have to understand – what the hell is happening to me?”

A car pulls up. Jemma’s hand is on the doorhandle when she looks back at him, her chin trembling slightly but her jaw set with determination. A look he knows. A look he misses.

 _“Now? You want to talk about this_ now?”

_He is trying to keep her out. Trying to keep this from happening again. He can live with this tenuous balance, with just being friends. That’s what he tells himself as she rambles, as he finishes packing, as he brushes her off._

_But she catches his hand._

_“Maybe there is.”_

“Not here,” she says finally. “Is there somewhere we can go to talk without being overheard?”


	2. Chapter 2

Fitz is brimming with nervous agitation as Jemma surveys his penthouse studio apartment. Normally in an evening this is a moment of self-congratulation, the sleek wood and open floor plan taking the breath away from any of his rotation of female guests. But normally he is here to take their breath away, not the other way around.

He clears his throat and puts his hands on his hips, if only for something to do with them. The words heavy with familiarity in his mouth, he says stiffly, “So. We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

Jemma smiles slightly but doesn’t answer. He follows her, a few steps behind, as she trails a hand over his kitchen countertop, along the dining table, weaving through the leather couches and up the few steps into the bedroom. She doesn’t glance at the massive bed, done up by Fitz’s maid since he’d left that morning. She stops at one of the windows, gazing out over the city and, beyond it, the lake shimmering with moonlight; her face is unreadable in her reflection.

“You have quite the enviable life here,” she says without turning. “I can understand why you enjoy yourself so much.”

“We can talk here, I promise.” He’s trying not to plead. “I designed Hydra’s surveillance tech, and I’m the only one who knows how to block it. We won’t be overheard. Just – please, tell me, what the hell is happening to me?”

She faces him, her shoulder blades almost pressed against the window. The distance between them feels unnatural. “What do you _think_ is happening to you?”

“I don’t – I don’t know, I –” He’s breathless, at a loss for words. His father would be so ashamed. “Since I saw you on the balcony I’ve been having these – these episodes, flashes of another version of me – it’s not possible, but— They feel like memories.”

Her shoulders noticeably relax as she breathes out. “They _are_ memories. It’s _you_.”

“Then doesn’t – it’s not possible—“ He rubs his eyes with the heel of his hands. “That would make this, like, an alternate reality, or something, and we’re not even close to producing that kind of tech—“

“Not here, you’re not. There? You’ve outdone yourself.” She steps closer. “What do you remember about … me?”

“You’re Jemma Anne Simmons, from Sheffield,” he replies without hesitation. “I don’t know how I know that, but – you’re less than a month younger than me. We met when we were sixteen. You were the first person I was ever happy to admit was smarter than me. I think you’re the smartest person in the world. You hate raw tomatoes and like your toast slightly underdone. You always prefer window seats—“

“Everyone prefers window seats,” Jemma scoffs.

“I don’t, then you have to climb over everyone to use the loo. But you – you need the window, to watch everything happen. You love exploring. You have a thirst for adventure I’ll never understand, but I’d follow you anywhere so—“ He shuts his mouth quickly. Too much. It’s all too much. What he knows of her, what he feels for her – it’s unbearable. “Earlier,” he says, voice low and shaking, “you said you’re someone I used to know. Who are you really?”

Jemma shakes her head slightly and looks to the ceiling, then back to him, the seedlings of tears on her eyelashes. “Someone who loves you.”

“Are you quoting _Star Wars_ to me? I hate _Star Wars_. Oh god, no I don’t, how could I ever – I love _Star Wars_ , I can quote the entire original trilogy. What monster doesn’t – how could I – how could _he_ —“ Something more important pushes its way through. “When you say you’re someone who _loves_ me, do you mean… do we—“ He glances over at the bed beside them.

“Don’t go all blushing schoolboy on me now,” she chuckles. “I know your reputation.”

“His reputation,” Fitz answers automatically. “That’s not – it suddenly seems so bloody obvious, that, the women, the money, this—“ He gestures around the apartment. “That’s not – _me_. That’s not who I am. Who – who the hell am I?”

Jemma steps right up to him, as if with the emotional distance they’re crossing she can cross the space between them. “You’re my Fitz,” she whispers.

He has just a moment to be struck by the sheer rightness of her use of the name – everyone else calls him _Leo_ , to avoid confusion with his father, but he’s always preferred his surname and could never say why – before she brings first one hand, then the other, to his face, cradling it gently.

Her fingers are icy cold, but it is from the sheer ecstasy of her touch that he must close his eyes. He knows in that instant that every bit of her will fit perfectly around every contour of his own body. And as if by some kind of interdimensional muscle memory, her touch brings everything back. Most of the memories revolve around Jemma, but not all: there is another young woman he remembers confiding in, an older man whose sternness overlaid a fatherly concern, a giant of a man for whom he felt the most searing friendship and gratitude, images of his mother, his loving, gentle, patient mother, whom he’s not seen in twenty years.

He remembers them all. He remembers every second of it, remembers it with such clarity and brilliance that it drives all feeling for _this_ existence right out of his mind. He remembers the pain as well as he remembers the joy, but he _remembers_ it.

He laughs in disbelief.

“What’s so funny?” Jemma inquires.

“Nothing, I just –“ He slowly opens his eyes. “I’m so relieved, I – I had no idea, but—Why are _you_ smiling?”

“I missed you so much,” Jemma breathes.

She flings her arms around his neck, and whatever he thought earlier about knowing how it would feel to hold her was a wild underestimation. His shoulder has never had any purpose greater than to support her chin. It is _her_ shoulder. He clutches her, terrified she’ll disappear and leave him in this life, aware of who he is but lost from everything and everyone he loves.

When she gently pushes back from him, he can’t let her fully go. He kisses just under her right eye and murmurs, “I missed you, Jemma.” He nuzzles her cheek with his nose, reveling in the way her eyelashes flutter at the sensation. “God, I – I feel like I’d been dreaming until you came along.”

“That’s terribly cliché,” she chuckles, fiddling with his bowtie.

“In case you haven’t noticed, this version of me is a _bit_ of an arse,” he reminds her with a wince.

“Indeed. Have you seen your haircut?” She runs her fingers through the curls on top of his head, her fingernails just brushing his scalp. “Pick a length, for goodness’s sake, Fitz. I love the curls, but – this is a bit Hitler Youth, don’t you think?”

“Oi! Hydra prides itself on its Nazi association. My haircut is _very_ Hitler youth.” Fitz mimes gagging. “I’ll have my doorman bring up a razor tomorrow morning.”

“Do you hear yourself?” There are happy tears streaking down Jemma’s face as she curls one hand around Fitz’s ear. “You have a _doorman_.”

“God, I’m insufferable,” he groans, nestling his face in the crook of her neck. It is the warmest, softest, safest, most comfortable place he’s ever hidden and he may never come out.

“I will gladly suffer you in any version of reality,” he only barely hears Jemma whisper.

He kisses her neck where his lips already are, kisses up the column of her throat until he can look at her. Her eyes are blazing with a ferocity he’s sure is directed at the million seemingly insurmountable obstacles she has surmounted to be here, to be with him, to save him and their friends. Her eyes are a fire, and he wants to be consumed.

He leans in to within just a hairsbreadth of kissing her, so close she tilts her chin up, eager to receive. “I love you, Jemma Simmons.”

In answer she surges to meet him, one hand at the back of his head and the other already working his tuxedo jacket off. If her first touch on his face had been ecstasy, kissing her is nirvana.

“How long has it been since we’ve done this?” he gasps as she fumbles with the zip at the back of her dress and he tosses his jacket and tie aside.

“In reality? About a week. Here, twenty-nine years, apparently.”

“Either way, we’re overdue,” he groans, catching her about the waist just as her dress falls to the floor and stumbling with her to the bed.

She releases him from his other self’s clothes, helping him shimmy down the dress trousers while he yanks his shirt straight over his head without undoing the buttons.

“Eager. I like it,” Jemma pants, grinning lasciviously up at him.

“You knew that the instant I remembered you we’d fall right into bed, didn’t you?” He dives down for a kiss so long they both almost lose breath, but as she searches for more he pulls back and slides down the bed to undo the straps of her heels. “What would you have done if I’d not come to, slept with me anyway?”

“Arse or not, I still found you devilishly attractive, unfortunately,” Jemma admits.

He snorts. “Of course you did.”

He lifts her foot as he slips her second shoe off and kisses just above the jutting anklebone. Her eyes flicker closed for a second, her stomach contracting. Taking that as a plea to continue, he kneels just on the edge of the bed, leaning down to kiss below her kneecap, to the side of it, just above it. He considers licking it but she’ll surely laugh at him, however desperately much they both want this.

There are new scars across her skin, a new tightness to her muscles. He has so many questions he needs to ask her, so many dark suspicions beginning to form, but she seems to understand, grazing his bare shoulder with her hand, urging him on.

He is somewhere on her upper thigh, a hand on her hip and the edge of her pants just inches from his nose, when she giggles.

“Seriously?” He pouts up at her, even as he rubs his cheek across her leg.

“I’m sorry, it’s just – you know this isn’t real, right? We’re not _actually_ having sex.”

“Uh, excuse me, Simmons, but I fully intend for the orgasm I give you to be _real_.”

“I should hope not! Poor Elena is watching over my immobile body, we’d give her a terrible shock. I mean – this is all in our _heads,_ Fitz. Why weren’t we using the VR tech for this _ages_ ago? It’s really the only appropriate application. We could’ve been having sex at work and no one would’ve known.”

“Appropr— You’ve got to get your priorities straight, woman.” As she laughs at him, he pulls her pants down with one finger, just revealing her, but she catches his chin as he lower his face to kiss between her legs.

“Not now, Fitz,” she whispers, “please. We can’t waste any more time.”

“Who’s eager now?” he chuckles, but he obliges, and together they divest themselves of their remaining clothing.

It is unlike any other time they have made love. Their first time was so tentative and exploratory and awestruck; occasionally they will be wine-drunk and giggly; too often, since the madness with Radcliffe began, they are hurried and needy.

Tonight, it as if the galaxy centers on them. As if time will wait for them. As if their very coupling is necessary for the universe to continue.

As he sinks into Jemma, Fitz whimpers with the sensory overload, the feel of her around him, her legs bracketing his hips, her hands gripping his forearms too tightly, the flush across her chest and the way her head jerks slightly when he’s gone as far as he can, her little gasp.

One of her hands slips around to his arse, already clenched and trembling as he slowly, _slowly_ pulls nearly all the way out, breathing ragged.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to—“ he pants, hand hovering over her bare breasts, darting down towards her clit.

“Oh, I want you to,” she says hoarsely. “Just not – first – together?”

He understands. They don’t always understand each other but when it matters most, they somehow do.

The next time he enters her, he lowers his torso at the same time, slides an arm under her back and brings her up to him, holds her to him and kisses a thousand lifetimes full of love against her lips. From this position she can rock against him, can grind down along his cock so that they must both throw their heads back. Her hands don’t know what to do – they squeeze his arse and ghost up his chest and brush along his back and tense on the muscles of his thighs but finally she just grabs his face, desperate as the tempo increases, and they kiss and gasp for air and kiss and gasp for air and nearly suffocate as they kiss and come around and within each other.

Jemma pants against his cheek. They are both trembling; his thighs are burning and the sweat on the both of them shimmers in the overpriced mood lighting of his apartment. They should separate but they cannot. They will not.

At long last Jemma drags her head up to kiss the corner of his mouth, then eases herself off him. They make a simultaneous sound of protest, of loss, as they part, and their eyes catch, laughing, embarrassed. Jemma drops back across the downy comforter, limbs at odd angles, eyes dreamy, lips swollen and satisfied.

Fitz wants to say something. Anything. Given where they are and what Jemma has likely had to do to reach him, what they’ve just done is nothing short of remarkable.

But there is only one thing he feels is momentous enough, and he needs to wait until they return to reality before he can say it.

So he stretches out beside her, partly on top of her, an arm loosely over her waist, and slips into dreams as she strokes the back of his neck. They will talk later. They will get up in a moment to clean up, to get dressed, to slip under between the sheets and cuddle til dawn (and maybe later). For now, Fitz listens to the breathing of his interplanetary, interdimensional, badass superwoman love slow and calm. He lays beside her not a changed man so much as a recovered, retrieved, returned one.


End file.
